


Take me to the river; Watch me dance in the dark

by aybeexinfinity



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Artist and Muse, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, PWP, Passionate, Serial Killer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:02:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27357715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aybeexinfinity/pseuds/aybeexinfinity
Summary: Scarlett gets a strange invitation from Pickman after their initial meeting, and she makes a somewhat reckless decision to accept.TW for blood, but no violence--only mentions of what we see Pickman has done in the actual game.
Relationships: Pickman/Female Sole Survivor
Kudos: 28





	Take me to the river; Watch me dance in the dark

The dirty red door stood before her, the light from the faltering fire casting violent shadows through the mesh of the barrel. The bodies of the raiders she had fought against last time were nowhere to be found. She could make a guess at who moved them, but with the climate in Boston’s downtown core it was too hard to have a definitive answer. It was no short walk to get all the way to the old building, and yet taking the final step to the doorknob seemed to be the hardest one to take. Looking down again at the note in her hands, and chewed at the inside of her cheek.

With very good reason, she was scared to go in. Pickman had only been polite to her when they met, but the corpses and blood decorating his home showed her all she needed to know about his character to unwaveringly determine he was dangerous. If she did end up dead, it was all that damn Hancock’s fault. At least, that’s what she told herself to try and ease her conscience. If the illustrious Mayor of Goodneighbor hadn’t sent her round to find out what was going on at Pickman’s gallery, she wouldn’t have been there to save the man’s life. If she hadn’t taken the job, she never would have even crossed paths with him in all likeliness. And she definitely, absolutely, wouldn’t have received a personally addressed letter from him to her home in Diamond City.

She found it on the mat inside the door, a carefully folded piece of mostly clean paper that had been tied up twice over with a piece of twine. In the middle of the string’s knot lay a perfect circle of wax, devoid of any indentation or insignia. Piper had teased that she was probably getting fan mail after her interview was published in the latest issue of Publick Occurrences, but Scarlett was certain that given the general distrust among the residents of the Great Green Jewel it was probably hate mail. If not someone from the upper stands she had somehow pissed off, then perhaps a guard who didn’t like her social circle of the nosy reporter and synth detective.

If it hadn’t been wrapped up so formally she might have even thrown it out, words remaining unread. Instead, she had sat herself down on the couch to properly unseal it. The thread came apart with soft tugs, unravelling to expose the paper beneath. It almost smelled like smoke, though there was no evidence of the edges having been singed in the slightest. The presence of the letter itself, though, were only a fraction as shocking as the words inside.

_Hey Killer,_

_A humble request, if you should feel so inclined. Our meeting inspired me to paint something new, and I’ve never had the pleasure of a live subject. My canvas and paint are ready, and I would be delighted to have you as my muse._

_You know where to find me,_

_Pickman_

His tell-tale blood-smeared heart adorned the blank space beside his name, something that should have repulsed her but somehow left her unfazed. Piper had of course asked what the letter said, and telling her would have been the logical thing to do. What else does someone do when they get an invitation from a serial killer? Well, in Scarlett’s case the knee-jerk reaction was to hide the truth apparently. She said that it was private, nothing more, and the friend in Piper rejected the journalist in Piper and didn’t press for details. On further introspection, Scarlett understood the reason why she didn’t divulge the contents: she didn’t want to hear that it was wrong to go. Forget wrong, it was _crazy_ to even consider accepting his request.

Yet there she stood, face to face with the only barrier between her and the murderer who dabbled in painting. The same man who thought to leave her his own knife, which had likely been used in the very murders she had witnessed the results of. Scarlett had kept the blade, securing it to her thigh for easy access. It was not the kind of world where someone could say no to a free weapon, but she wasn’t exactly running low on places to purchase just such a knife.

Turning the knob to the would-be cadaver zone, the previous smell of death was much less present. She pushed the door closed behind her, the gentle click hitting her with the truth that she really was there. Life or death, it would all become clear soon just what his intentions were. She scanned the ground and ceiling for any tripwires or hidden traps, taking careful steps into the main hallway and staring around at the dark house. Subtle glows of light could be seen emanating in intervals throughout, perhaps candlelight used to illuminate the path for someone who knew the layout well enough in lowlight.

“Hello?” She called out into the silence. “Pickman?”

As her voice echoed through the house, she struggled to find the reason why she had come. Wandering into the first room, the pile of bodies and severed parts had been removed. His paintings still decorated the walls, and the first one that hid his safe had been placed back in its designated spot since her last visit. Whether or not the paintings had been hung in a specific order or just chronologically, she noticed that the subject seemed to get less coherent, or at least less corporeal, as the work evolved. In the back of her mind she knew that the red that covered much of the canvas was not pigment but rather blood, but it didn’t deter her enough from studying the artwork nonetheless. What started as faces and bodies of human subjects became more and more interlaced with something almost otherworldly. It was a little too dark to fit into any of the art styles she remembered from before the war, but seeing them in person again struck her just as it had the first time.

“What a pleasant turn of events.” Pickman said from behind her, causing her to spin around and reflexively reach for her weapon. He stayed a good distance, a gesture she hoped illustrated his lack of motivation to make her the next fatality in his home, but having him there in front of her suddenly made clear just why she had accepted his invitation. Why she lied about where she was going and hid the evidence from her friends.

There was something about his presence that had rooted in deep within her. The specifics were too difficult to pin down, and she knew it was more than just simple biology or attraction, but there was a quiet power that drew her into his own personal hurricane. He lacked the lunacy in his eyes she had come to expect of the Commonwealth’s mentally unstable citizens. Everything about him was calm, calculated, and entirely in control.

“I, uh, I got your letter.” She stammered out, still a little caught off guard by her intrinsic reaction to him. Relaxing both arms away from her instinct towards self-defence, she tilted her head and let her next bit of apprehension out. “How did you know where I live?”

“You are somewhat infamous in these parts, if you didn’t already know. Between the newspaper and the radio, it seems many are talking of the Vault Dweller.” He explained with ease, the three piece suit he wore so spotless she’d have sworn he got it dry cleaned. “It didn’t take much asking around in Diamond City to learn which home was yours. I would have left it in the mailbox, but I didn’t want to chance it falling into someone else’s hands.”

“If you knew exactly where I was, though, why didn’t you just ask me yourself?” She asked more casually now, content thus far with his reasoning. She had to remind herself that he was still dangerous, though, and that she wouldn’t be truly safe until she was back in Sanctuary. Though his comments about her growing notoriety made her second guess whether a different settlement may be a more anonymous decision.

“Why, to give you the chance to refuse of course.” He replied smoothly. “Rejection is much easier to deliver with silence than with a formal reply.”

It hadn’t been the response she expected, but she appreciated his words—for all they were worth. They stood in silence for a brief moment before he finally took a step into the same room as her. When she didn’t tense up or withdraw, he continued to move closer until they were a few feet apart. He looked her in the eye, unflinchingly, and brazenly studied the rest of her in the little light there was.

“So this painting you’re wanting to make…” She began, hoping to get things started before she thought better of her choices and left.

“Yes, I believe it will be the anchor to my collection. I must confess, there was something about the sight of you taking down those raiders that…spoke to me. I have desperately tried to capture the moment since, but to no avail. Having you here with me, in the flesh, was the only solution I could think of to try and capture your…captivating energy.”

His words brought a blush to her cheeks that she tried and likely failed to fend off. It was hard enough to imagine being spoken to that way by anyone, let alone someone who spent their time taking lives. She felt the urge to cross her arms, pick at the skin around her nails, _something_ just to occupy her hands.

“I won’t hold it against you if you’d like to leave. An artist cannot deny his muse, though, so I must ask: will you let me paint you as my subject, Scarlett?” He folded both hands before him, his very breath seemingly hinged on the anticipation of her response. It was what she had come to this place for, wasn’t it? She nodded in response, watching as the spark of a smile flashed across his features.

He motioned for her to follow him as he turned on his heel. She trailed after him down the hallway, taking in just how clean everything was in comparison to the last time she had been there. She hadn’t exactly expected to save his life that day; at best she was planning on defending herself against some raiders. He must have had a different standard for keeping his studio when he was expecting a guest. After all, he worked alone as he’d told her in the pit of the tunnels running below his home.

She originally had to take the long way down to the bowels of the home, fighting her way through raiders hyped up on fear and navigating through hollowed out walls to get to the basement. This time, though, the door was unlocked. As he turned the knob, it revealed a flame-lit stairwell that led to what she assumed was their destination: his makeshift studio. Part of her was still screaming at the stupidity of willingly walking into the home of a serial killer, alone no less. There would be no one around to hear her scream for help if he managed to overpower her. Given the state his victims had been found in, it was likely she would lose without her gun. Yet still, she followed after him down the creaky pre-war stairs.

What she came to learn very early was that in the 200 years she was on ice, the world hadn’t just physically gone to shit. The thousands of years spent into refining humanity into the best version of itself were thrown out the window in a matter of minutes. Or however long it takes to bomb the hell out of a country. With the reliable supply chains ripped out from under the human race, the collective species tumbled right back down to the bottom of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. On some level she understood the reason raiders acted the way they did: if you didn’t know where your next meal was coming from, if you couldn’t tell if everyone you run into is hoping to put a bullet it you, it can do a number on the psyche. That was likely how the raider gangs started, but so many of the ones she had come across in the Commonwealth lived for the worst parts of human capability. They thrived off torturing innocent people, raping, murdering, pillaging, and just generally making life in a post-apocalyptic world as difficult as possible.

This was the rationale Scarlett used when brushing off Pickman’s crimes. He may have been a killer himself, but he had a very specific requirement to make someone his victim. He only ever dealt with raiders—no kids, no innocent civilians, no animals that made easy prey. He only hurt people who hurt people. Did that negate his wrongs? Did that cosmically erase his sins? All of that was too far above her pay grade to try and work out, but for the time being it was reason enough for her not to want to treat him like any other violent person she met.

What little sunlight there had been upstairs dwindled dimmer until her eyes were fighting to adjust. The basement of his home was much as she remembered, though many more candles now surrounded the workspace he used for his painting. It created an almost mystical atmosphere with just enough darkness to inspire a little fear. On the platform of bricks that stood next to the stairs further down, he had his easel and paint already prepared. She took some consolation in the fact that he already had his red “paint” and that she would not be providing that herself. He had his telltale black and yellow pigments as well, and a series of brushes and dirty water in jars. Beneath it all he had laid out a blanket as a tarp—whether for her comfort or to cover the bloodstains beneath, she did not know. On the other side of the easel was a chair for her to sit on, and several cans of sealed purified water. Atop the chair, though, sat a meticulously folded piece of fabric that even in the lowlight was clearly the cleanest thing in the house.

“If you would indulge me,” he began, motioning to the fabric on the chair. “My vision for this piece includes a very specific attire.”

“You want me to wear that?” She asked with raised eyebrows, unsure how she felt about being dressed up for such a drawn out process. He nodded, turning his back to provide her some privacy. There wasn’t exactly space for a dressing room in the midst of the basement. She picked up the fabric, a deep red several shades darker than her own hair. The material was soft and plush, a sensation she savoured for its rarity in the landscape of the Commonwealth. It was clear that it had never been worn, and she wondered where Pickman could have found it.

Glancing over at him, his back still faced her. He was dusting off the top of a radio unit, focused on tuning it just right and showing no signs of trying to covertly watch her strip. So, she did. Setting all her weapons down first within arm’s reach, she unzipped her jumpsuit and rolled down the top half to her waist. Opening up the provided clothing, she realized it was a floor-length dress. It had a wide neckline that plunged low enough to make a statement, and a zipper that ran down the back. She pulled at the metal tab to open it all up, trying not to think about the details of what was going on as she slipped her arms through the quarter-length sleeves. Pulling it down over her torso, she let the billowing fabric encompass her legs before pulling down the rest of her suit over her shoes. Reaching a hand behind her back, she contorted as best as she could to pull the zipper up most of the way. When her arms reached their limits, she then reached down from above her shoulder to pull it closed completely.

The chair meant for her was positioned on an angle, and as she took a seat the music bloomed to life. A deep and almost dark classical tune droned out from the frail speakers, violin chords taking swan dives to the melancholic keys of a piano. Scarlett folded her hands in her lap and let the artist know she was ready. He straightened up at her voice, hesitating for a moment before turning to face her. She couldn’t quite place the emotion on his face, as he didn’t seem to make a habit of showing much of any at all. What she could discern was a distant cousin of admiration, a neighboring twinge of awe. He approached her with slow steps, perhaps to assert his lack of cruel intentions, until he stood directly in front of her.

Reaching a hand out to the fabric of her dress, he paused and asked “May I?”

She nodded, watching as he knelt at her feet to gently tug down the shoulders of the dress just enough to bare the skin beneath. Picking up the skirt’s voluminous fabric, he fanned it out to cover the legs of the chair completely and pool on the ground around her. He slipped his fingers in the fold of the skirt and pulled it open to reveal a slit that went up to her thigh. Pickman made use of the dress’ design and emphasized the stark contrast of her skin to the red fabric. He made sure that he didn’t touch her skin, even for a moment. Getting to his feet, his attention turned to her hair. Pushing it back and over her shoulders, he spread out her tresses to let them billow down her back.

“One final touch, and I can get started.” He said, tone focused as he grabbed a small paint can full of red and a small brush. “This may feel a little cold.”

Getting a small bit of liquid on his brush, he started by drawing a thin line across her neck. It was, in fact, cold; something she attributed to the general temperature of the basement. After thickening the line, he added circles of red in evenly spaced intervals. When he was content with the shape, he gathered an excess of red onto his brush and pushed it into each of the spheres, purposefully letting it drip down in trails. From the shape of it all she guessed he had painted her a ruby red necklace of sorts. Having him so close to her like should have inspired a little more fear, but he seemed genuinely dedicated to his work and offing his alleged subject was _not_ how he would get to finish his painting. What he planned on trying after the work was complete, though, was another story entirely.

“I’ve already started on the background, so hopefully I won’t take too much of your time.” Pickman said as he headed over to the far side of the basement. Grabbing a cloth covered square, he pulled off the cover of the canvas as he walked back to the easel before her. She caught only a brief glimpse of what he had done thus far, but in the candlelight it was too difficult to make out anything beyond the colour black and faint etchings of yellow.

No further instruction came her way as he set the canvas on its stand and picked up his paintbrush. She assumed her role was to sit as still as possible and try to maintain the shape of the dress and her hair as he’d adjusted it. The music helped to ease her nerves and prevent the knee-jerk reaction of filling silence with small talk. Pickman didn’t really seem the type to carry out idle conversation. She found herself thinking about how fitting a world he had been born into, that it could provide an endless outlet for quenching his bloodlust. While he of course couldn’t get away with indulging himself in the likes of Diamond City, nor even a place like Goodneighbor, the unpatrolled expanse of post-nuclear Boston were fertile ground for his darkest desires. Still, the fact he cultivated such a selective prey and managed to, technically, do some good with what would normally be considered a dangerous part of himself, was comforting in a sense.

The blood methodically painted onto her neck began to dry to a crusty consistency, the likes of which she normally only felt after a particularly nasty firefight. In most instances she was a fan of keeping foes at a distance, reducing the risk of anything mattering besides her gun and her aim, but there were times that called for close quarters. The sensation of oxidizing blood on her skin at one time felt comical, a lifetime ago. Back when drenching yourself in fake blood was totally commonplace one night out of the year. Her Halloween costumes had always been over-the-top, but all the corn syrup and red food coloring in the world couldn’t prepare her for her current reality.

As he dove further into his work, he quietly began to hum along to the music, matching its fervor with tone but not expression. The paintbrush scratched across the surface of the canvas over and over, its frantic movements melting into smooth swipes without warning. As she sat for him, Scarlett found herself thinking back to the times when people actually commissioned artists to create detailed portraits of themselves, their families, even their pets. Like the paintings of the Cabot family hanging throughout Jack’s house, the concept seemed so incredibly far away. Too far to be tangible. Even before the war, the presence of cameras made portrait-painting a distant memory, hard to imagine in the wake of the technophilic world she’d been ripped out of.

She watched his movements, trying to move as little as possible, as he changed colours and brushes as the need arose. His eyes moved to her in fleeting glances, almost like he couldn’t stand to look for too long. The feeling of staring at the sun and wanting to keep looking but having the strength and power threaten to burn your vision entirely if you do not look away. Scarlett barely knew anything about art and its accompanying process, so she had no way of knowing what part of her he would mimic first.

There was an effortlessness to the way he painted that went beyond flow. His art was something that almost looked like he channeled from some unknown elsewhere, the brush seeming to move with a mind of its own. Scarlett thought back to when she had finally happened upon him at the end of the maze of tunnels, and how he managed to look wholly in control at the gunpoint of three very angry raiders. Could he have known someone was on their way to rescue him? Impossible. And yet, he had stood with such casual defiance and a lazy smile on his face that was almost frightening. Who the hell is that unfazed by certain death?

An artistically inclined serial killer, apparently.

His eyes had found hers as she approached the raiders, but he did not let the attackers in on what would soon be their fate. She had jumped down from the ledge right into the thick of things, using her shotgun to deliver a headshot to the biggest of the bunch before turning to the next. Before she had even finished reloading, Pickman had run at the third raider. When the immediate danger was gone, she had faced him with the caution and apprehension that his macabre home warranted. In the fight, blood had splattered across her face like freckles, the bulk of it dripping down from her jumpsuit. The way he looked at her in that moment, it was almost a sort of…hunger. An emotion she didn’t place until long after they parted ways. But that hollowness in his eyes appeared to bring back that emotion when he looked at her now, the candlelight casting shadows of her silhouette that danced around in the dark.

If she lived to make it back to Diamond City, or wherever the hell she felt like calling home, she’d take the secret of this rendezvous with her to the grave. Not even her more wild-minded companions like Cait or Hancock could possibly understand her agreeing to this. Beyond the judgement and assertion that she was crazy, there was something about it all that she wanted to keep for herself. The magnetic affect he exuded was a secret she wanted to label her own. Lock it away, safe from prying eyes.

“Now for the detail. I’d like to position you, If I may.” Setting down the brush handle across the top of the paint can, he stepped out from behind the canvas and studied her while awaiting permission.

“Of course.” Straightened up a little in anticipation, watching as he approached her, and tried to keep her limbs malleable.

Pickman reached out and took both of her hands in his, only holding on by her fingers, and placed them flat one atop the other in her lap. He stood back to study her and made minute adjustments to her elbows, shoulders, the curve of her back. Lastly, he brought a single hand up to her chin and gently tilted it up so she was looking at him. It wasn’t necessarily an uncomfortable position, but the knowledge she would have to hold it consciously was what made her a little nervous. Between the chair and the tilt of her head, she was facing away from the viewpoint of the canvas’ would-be audience. The painting would have the image of her side profile, as far as she could tell.

“And now, just with your eyes, look at me.” He directed, moving back to his station behind the easel and picking up the paint and brush. She did as he asked and did her best to keep the rest of her body still. Her eyes met his as she awaited any further adjustments, but he instead stared at her for a few moments past comfortable. Then, in a tone that bordered sweet, he breathed out a single word. “ _Perfection._ ”

Scarlett felt her cheeks redden at his words, but tried to remind herself that she was just helping him to execute the vision in his mind. She stayed as still as she could muster, allowing the minor adjustments needed to keep her legs from the rigidity. It was impossible to tell the time in the dark of the basement, and without her pipboy it was a mystery just how long she had been there. She found herself anxious to see the finished product, curious to gaze upon her likeness captured, and perhaps how she was seen through his eye in particular.

There was no denying that between the luxurious dress, the posture, and the unwavering attention on her alone evoked a feeling of power. Not necessarily control, but the assertion that her voice was one that mattered. That her presence was one not so easy to snuff out from this world.

When at last he set down his paintbrush and stepped back to view his work properly, she loosened the hold on herself. His eyes moved from her to the canvas and back again, perhaps evaluating the accuracy of his work. He let out a sigh of contentment and announced it was complete. Beckoning her over, she carefully got to her feet and took small steps until the fabric of the dress was safely trailing behind her. Approaching the canvas, she felt butterflies in her stomach at the anticipation of what she would gaze upon.

And the artist did not disappoint. It was somehow the most and least coherent piece she had seen of his, abstract at its core but undeniably grounded in reality, though broken up into various elements. The background of the painting was in fact absolute black, enhanced by the candlelight that surrounded them, but there were muddied yellow atomic clouds that decorated the space. At their base, wide open eyes gazed at the viewer defiantly. Along the bottom of the canvas, feeble hands reached up—in prayer or desperation, she could not tell. In the middle of the foreground, her uncanny likeness stared back at her from a smoky throne. The red of the dress was even more startling on the canvas, in part thanks to the medium used, but from her posture to the necklace dripping down her throat, there was something haunting about the way she had been captured. Most unnerving, and somehow flattering, of all was her gaze. It was likely the combination of her facing away from the viewer but turning her eyes to meet them that affected her so, but the look felt almost accusatory. All of which was to say she was equally shocked and flattered.

“It’s…incredible.” She managed at last, eyes soaking up every last detail of the image. She could feel the artist’s eyes burning on her, eager to lap up her reaction. “I haven’t seen anything so haunting, so powerful, since before I was…”

“I’m so happy you approve.” He said from her side. “To be viciously ripped from a life of peace and dropped into our world with such _natural_ talent for dispatching your enemies; I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t what I was expecting when they sent us into the Vault.” She said with a short laugh, crossing both arms under her chest. “I suppose this world arranges us all as it sees fit.”

“Then I should thank the world for delivering you to me.” He turned to face her properly and she hesitantly mirrored the gesture, the little voice in the back of her mind telling her this could be the moment he tries to kill her. “Who knows what would have happened to me down here if you hadn’t showed up when you did. Almost like it was…”

“What, fate?” She teased, laughter cut short by the look on his face. It was almost…pious. He stared at her unblinkingly and deepened her sense of apprehension. After several moments too long, he finally spoke again.

“I must confess, something about you makes me feel as though I’m seeing infinity itself. You are the closest I have come to feeling endlessness and the subjectivity of time.” He said brazenly, without a shred of hesitation or doubt. Again, she felt her cheeks blossom with blush at his words. He was looking at her so intently that it was impossible for her to turn away. In fact, being alone with him in the depths of the basement had her feeling some kind of way. Like a string stretched out from each of them to meet in the middle, and an external force was tightening the knot in increments to pull them closer. “You are the beauty of life and power of death made tangible. I am but the humble moment in between.”

By the time she noticed just how close they had gotten, her whole body was on fire. The details of what he did in his free time were lost on her. The very ground they stood on melted away as her mind was consumed with a singular thought. She threw her better judgement out the window and leaned forward to crash her lips down on his.

Less than a heartbeat later, he was reciprocating in kind. She lay both hands on his chest, fingers gently grabbing at the tweed fabric of his suit. He pressed one palm to the small of her back, pulling her close against him, and slid his free hand up the back of her neck into her hair. Grabbing hold of the locks, he slipped his tongue into her mouth with fervor. It evoked a quiet moan from her throat, the sound only seeming to spur him on. He was holding her so tightly that even if she did want to escape, she doubted that she would have been able to.

Kicking off her shoes, she peeled the blazer down his arms and tossed it to the side. He loosened his tie enough to slip it off his neck, watching intently as she unbuttoned his vest and started on his shirt. When his chest was bare he reached behind her to tug down the zipper of the dress. The front of it folded forward, his hands working delicately to pull the sleeves down her arms without damaging the fabric. His fingertips brushed along the necklace he’d painted onto her, little flecks of dried blood dislodging in the process. He followed the drip lines of the central ruby down between her breasts, his touch feeling nothing less than electrifying. He pulled her back to him so he could kiss her,

Scarlett let her hands slide down his front, amazed that for all he did to his victims there wasn’t a single battle scar on him. He was an expert hunter, and his prey never stood a chance. She made quick work of his belt, the metal buckle making a loud thud as it hit the ground. Before she could go any further, he pulled away from her to lead her to the other side of the easel. Pushing the chair out of the way that had been her station, it clanged sharply against the stone as it tumbled off the platform. The cans of water tumbled in his wake, rolling away from the now cleared section of the blanket.

He sank to his knees before her, slowly pulling the dress over her hips and down her thighs until it was pulled on the ground at her feet. Reaching up a hand, he steadied her as she stepped out of the dress and barefoot onto the blanket. It was plush, unexpectedly so, and as clean as she could see by the light of the candles that surrounded them. Pickman folded the dress, notably messier than she had found it, and set it out of the way before returning his full attention to her.

Their lips met once more with hunger and exhilaration, the last few pieces of clothing between them finding a new home on the floor. They were both on their knees, lips locked in a battle of devouring, until he firmly gripped her waist and pulled her onto his lap. Scarlett could feel the hard length of him pressing against her as he broke their lips apart. He kept his eyes glued to hers as he slowly licked the length of his middle finger. Tingles trickled down her spine in anticipation as he slipped his hand between her legs. Dragging his finger up her slit, he drank in the way her features contorted as he circled her sweet spot with just the right amount of pressure.

The deep warmth spread out from her core as he worked her, the subconscious way her hips rocked into him only emphasizing the feeling. When he stopped his movements, it was only to see if she was ready to take him. Pulling her closer, he steadied himself as she lifted herself up, watching as he lined himself up. He slowly lowered her down onto him, eyes burning on her to see every minute reaction she had to the sensation. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, perhaps the first marks that would be left on him, as she stretched from the girth of him bit by bit. The introduction alone had her feeling winded, but as he started to pull out she realized just how badly she wanted him to continue.

Scarlett took it upon herself to meet their hips again, wordlessly signaling that she didn’t need to be treated half as delicately. Her breath stuttered as he pushed back into her, grabbing hold of hair with just enough gentility to keep it from hurting. He built up a determined rhythm, their bodies rising and falling together in the candlelight. The flames that surrounded them played tricks on her eyes, giving the illusion that shadow figures were darting all around. The transparent beings could not pass the candles themselves, but were eager to drink in the aura blooming between herself and the artist. She found her eyes drawn to the centres of the flame, their subtle light hiding eyes that flickered with unblinking piety. As the irises took more definitive shape, Pickman lay his hand on her cheek and brought her attention back to him. He covered her with kisses, lining them down her neck and settling into her collarbone.

In one quick movement he surged forward, laying her down on the blanket and easing into her again. During the change his shoulder bumped into the short table holding his paint. The can nearest to the edge slid from the impact, teetering over entirely and splashing him with the contents. Deep red coated his head, travelling down his body where gravity would allow it. Glimmering lines dripped down onto her chest, her shoulders, and even her cheeks. Were she in a right state of mind it would have stopped her then and there, but Pickman pressed himself right up against her chest and pulled her into a kiss so passionate it made her head spin. The red was sticky between their skin, gluing them together as he sped up his movements. Quiet huffs of breath escaped him as she tilted her hips up to meet him, to take him as deep as she could stand.

Both of his arms wrapped around her body beneath her, enveloping her in impossible heat and, perhaps strangest of all, comfort. Like this was a place meant just for her, or she was the only one who had entered this space. The Commonwealth and all its pieces felt dimensions away, and with every repetition she was whisked further away. She could feel the coiling tension building up in her core, the temptation of ecstasy whispering in circles around her.

To have some semblance of participation, Scarlett eased them over so she was the one on top. Laying her palms flat on his chest, she braced herself as her knees dug into the blanket below them. He sat both hands on her waist and held on just tight enough to spare her from bruising. She set the pace, languid at first, but was no longer focused on the blissful journey. Now, all she was chasing was release.

As her movements became more frantic, her vision felt like it was getting blurry. The shadow figures were moving fast now, phantom hands reaching out to merge with one another and bind the artist and his muse in the centre. The candles seemed to burn brighter than before—or was she just used to the light now? Her breath was shallow from the efforts, the feel of him deep inside her opened parts of herself that had been sealed for two centuries. Though in their own private dimension beneath the streets of Boston, she felt like she was finally waking up.

Her breaths dissolved to moans as a low humming sounded out in her ears. She could feel her limbs start to shake with every grunt that escaped him. When her nails started to dig into his chest, he rose up to meet her face to face. He took over the last leg of their marathon, holding her body in place as he thrust into her faster and faster. Pickman’s blood-soaked hair stuck together in choppy pieces as his hot breath rolled against her neck. He kept his hands flat against her back to support her as they chased one another down a rabbit hole of pleasure. In the background behind him, her eye was drawn to the nearest row of candles. They were watching her, lidless yellow eyes bearing witness to the union before them. It was striking and unsettling, but before she could blink the sight away she was beckoned.

“Look at me.” Pickman said in a low voice. It was the most demanding he had been their entire encounter, so the tone caught her off guard. She obeyed, nonetheless, and met his eyes. Like staring into an impossibly dark chasm, she could not look away from the abyss. She walked willingly to the edge and dove right in. “That’s it. Just like that. Keep your eyes on me.”

Something about his voice twisted up her insides and she felt a shudder, a great prelude to the cacophony that was soon to follow. He sensed this too, holding onto her tightly and slamming into her with unnatural force. The humming in her ears rapidly grew louder into a booming crescendo that piqued with their release.

Her climax raked through her with such ferocity that had Pickman not been gripping her as he did, she was certain she would have collapsed. In uncanny unison, he spilled himself inside her with a force that took her breath away. His hips continued to snap up to meet hers in shudders, only ceasing to move when her very last ripple had subsided. On her final exhale, he pulled her close and kissed her, Scarlett’s eyes closing languidly at the gesture.

As her senses slowly crept back to her body, she was aware that the humming noise had disappeared entirely—and so had the music from the radio. Perhaps that was all she had been hearing, some sort of interference or distortion in the signal. The candles were nothing more than candles, and any other oddities she thought she had seen were easily chalked up to her hazy state of mind. She became immediately aware of the blood that covered them both, not to mention the stickiness between her legs. He carefully eased her off of him and helped her to settle on the blanket beside him. Still working to catch her breath, she stared up at the dark ceiling and took comfort in the warmth of his body beside hers.

“Well…that was not what I expected when I showed up here.” She managed, more to break the silence than anything. He let out a muted laugh at her words.

“It was certainly a deviation from my normal process for my work.” He replied, staying at her side for a few more moments before sitting up. He reached over her to grab a cloth and one of the cans of purified water. Liberally soaking the fabric, he handed it to her and watched as she cleaned herself off—from blood and bodily fluids alike. Only when she was finished did he follow suit, watching as she rummaged for each piece of clothing and slowly hid herself from him once more.

Despite what they had just finished, she tried to busy herself as he got dressed. Wandering over to the painting he had done, she studied it as she got all of her gear back on. In the midst of securing his gifted blade back on her person, she paused at the sight of something strange. While she was certain she had gotten a good look at the piece prior to their submission to base needs, she must have missed the bright yellow crown that sat upon her head in the image. It was almost like a ring of fire with prongs reaching up and out. Each flame was adorned with the same type of bloody ruby that sat upon her neck, the whole headpiece glimmering in the painting’s chosen light. It was so beautiful that it was hard to imagine how she could have missed it, but there wasn’t really another explanation for it.

“A world burns, a queen rises.” Pickman said from behind her, his presence so sudden and close that it startled her.

“It’s…It’s really something, Pickman.” She managed in response, unable to look at him in the moment without thinking about what they had just done. “At least your collection is complete now, right?”

“It’s clear to me now, you were the only one who could finish it.” He said in a distant tone; one not necessarily threatening but detached in a way she couldn’t fully understand. She found herself wanting to ask where this left them, if she would ever see him again, but the thought of asking that felt weak. She felt a subtle shift in her persona, like she was above that. Instead, she chose to make more of a statement than a request.

“Hope to see you here next time I’m in the area.” Scarlett fastened the pipboy onto her wrist and looked over at him. He bowed his head and motioned to the stairs so she knew which way the exit was. As she walked away, there was a strength to her footfalls that she hadn’t felt before, and when she looked back at him from the base of the stairs he had a look of longing, of ecstasy, of complete and total submission to her will.

“See you around, killer.”

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo this story hit me out of nowhere, and I whipped it together kinda quick. I must credit The nth Apple's video on YouTube (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kbl-mSh6zjo) for the inspiration of the mythos at play/the interpretation of the paintings. I've always loved the Fallout universe's casual inclusion of "otherworldly" phenomenon, especially the murder mansion in Nuka World and the weird shit that went down at Dunwich Borers. 
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoyed this! Thanks for reading.


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